The Fall of Shatterworld
by LynchingVerse
Summary: President Lex Luthor begins his plans that lead to the metahuman wars of the once proud Superhero filled Earth. Originally by Cracklord.
1. Chapter 1

"Pleased you could take the time to see me, Ramirez."

"Well, when the President of the United States asks for me, I don't have much choice." The latino wizard replies, not meeting the mans eyes.

"Oh, I'm not here as the president. I'm here as a scientist."

"Are you." He fell silent for a moment, but when Luthor remained silent himself he looked up and led him on. "I take it you've discovered something interesting to me?"

"You might say that." Luthor replied. "It took me a while, all sorts of... tests, but I figured out how your magic works. It began as an intellectual exercise, I was confronted with a problem I didn't like and wanted to understand it. And then control it, naturally. I am surrounded by people with something I am defenseless against, allies of convenience and enemies of substance, and so I am vulnerable. So I decided I wanted to know more. Besides, I didn't like the implication that I am inferior to other people simply due to sheer dumb luck of genetics and interbreeding amongst the elite."

He pauses for a sip out of the decanter on his desk. "So I did some tests, to determine the nature of your powers. And as it happens, you're not a metahuman, but you are quantifiably different. But it's not a matter of genes, or mutations, or any other bits of biological wisdom. It's something far simpler."

"Yes. It's magic."

"No such thing. You see, what you so naively call magic is actually a far more complicated scientific process. And it exists in everyone, to a greater or lesser extent. What it is, in fact, is their life-force, which radiates from them, and the leakage is dispersed across the world. Where the concentration is higher, it runs together, in a manner not unlike the wind currents of the earth, and serve a similar function. Think of it like body temperature. And if you're affinity is higher then the average, then you are an ordinary human being."

"Well yes... higher?"

"Higher. And then there are those born with less. Those who are less intense then the surrounding world. To stretch the body heat metaphor, the majority heat up the world, while the others absorb the warmth the others produce, receiving a constant influx of power while the rest carry on aimlessly filling up the world. What you are is a parasite. Your magic is not applied will. The human mind can triumph over many things, I know that better then anyone, but it cannot make fire out of nothing. What makes the fire is life leached away from every individual you come into contact with, and some physics thrown in for good measure. You yourself are less a wizard then almost anyone else. Even your longevity is a sham."

Ramirez opened his mouth, then closed it, blinking. It actually made a lot of sense. It would explain how some beings existed on belief, because they were unconsciously being fed magic by the masses of humanity who believed in them. It answered so many questions, why cruel people only seemed to be able to summon up negative energy, and a thousand other little irregularities he'd never even thought of before.

"I thought you should know that. You can go." He said, looking down at the papers on his desk. 


	2. Chapter 2

Parker Robbins didn't have a second to react when the man grabbed him from behind, ripped his hood away, and forced his hands into handcuffs. There were two schools of how to handcuff a man. Less freedom if they handcuff you from behind, but they can't watch your hands either. This man settled on faith in the handcuffs, and forced his arms behind his back.

Then he pulled a black bag over his head with more then average strength, and forced him into the backseat of a car, taking his shoes as well. It was a nice car, he could tell by feel. Clean, leather seats, plenty of leg space, and the engine barely rattled. Probably something expensive and European. It even had that new car smell. He couldn't speak behind the bag, his voice was too muffled, so he bore the wait in silence. If the man wanted to kill him, he wouldn't take half an hour driving to wherever the place was. He'd just drop him at the bottom of the river. So he simply held still and tried to figure out what to do.

And the trip stretched on. The car rumbled to a stop a few times, then started again after waiting a minute. Picking up passengers? He doubted it, he could only hear the slow, steady, regular breathing of one man, the driver who had captured him. The man had used mixed martial arts to subdue him, and was clearly in good practice. Special forces at least, although the thought of being subdued by some name and number rankled him quite a bit.

At last the car pulled to a stop and the engine died. He heard a door open and felt a rush of fresh air across his exposed skin. The door opened to his right and the bag was yanked of him. He looked up at the man who had dragged him here, and his face fell.

From neck to foot, his lean form was enclosed in tightly moulded form-fitting leather and kevlar, as well as the occasional steel plates over his vitals. He was well armed, and built to muscular perfection, like a male anatomy cross-section in a textbook. And Parker had seen his face before. His features were saturnine and gloomy, somewhat gaunt, but classically well-formed enough to still be handsome, even accounting for the ravages of age, the leathery skin and scar tissue. His remaining eye was deep-set and unblinking, and it was impossible to decide what color it was, though it gave the impression of looking into countless fathoms of ice. His other was covered by a black patch, and the scars around suggested it had been ripped from the socket. A high, broad forehead, marked him as an idealist and dreamer, but even so he looked tough enough to make Parker feel like a soft-boiled egg.

"Slade Wilson." He says, doing his best to appear in control of the situation despite being more or less completely at the mercenaries mercy. Slade tossed his wild white hair in a manner reminiscent of a lions mane, and gave Parker a crocodilian smile, then reached down, his fingers closing around the front of Parker's shirt. He paused a moment, then hauled him to his feet, and pushed him down the path.

It was then that Parker realized where he had been dragged. The White House. The Special Services at the gate and patrolling the doors gave them both odd looks and lowered their hands meaningfully to their guns, but didn't actually act on their glowers, and Slade ignored them. Going for an angle of wounded dignity, Parker did the same thing.

The double doors swung open, and Parker was shoved into the oval office. The handcuffs were removed after Slade patted him down to make sure he wasn't concealing a weapon and ignored the japes about 'wanting to feel me up, or aren't I a little old for your taste?', but the hood and shoes were not returned, leaving him feeling almost naked.

Lex Luthor is handsome as well, in a classical sense, with high-cheekbones, deep-set eyes and a strong jaw, with a faint scar across his lip. Even so, there was something remotely repellant about him, some way he held himself, perhaps, maybe the casual arrogance in every line of him, that set alarm bells in the mind. His clothes don't help matters, he's dressed in an exquisite white white jacket and pants, meticulously pressed and with diamond cufflinks. A black glove on his right hand adds something remotely sinister, as if that was needed.

Lex looks up, and does not offer Parker a seat, or a glass from the decanter next to a stack of letters and his computer. He presses his fingertips together, as though pondering something complex, then at last speaks. "When they say an 'offer you can't refuse', they were taking a lead from me, Parker. Which is why you hang around abandoned warehouses making drug deals and keep out of Gotham, and I rule the country and manage all the production and industry in most of our cities. It's not a matter of luck, it's because if you do it well enough, most people will applaud you for it. Whether what you do is crime or not, it's a matter of doing it well."

"I don't hear an offer in there." Parker replied, curious despite himself. With Luthor as a patron, suddenly his future was looking a lot brighter. Things had been hard, of late. If Luthor heard him, his only sign was a slight shift in the direction of his explanation.

"Recently, I have been working towards a goal. That goal is humanity retaking the reigns of it's own fate. That goal is me and several right-thinking humans of influence and power removing them all, one way or another. It won't be as clean as I'd like, of course, but I can assure you a minimum of loss of life, and opportunities aplenty for the victors."

"You want to fight all of them?" Parker said incredulously, trying to figure out if Luthor had lost it. But if he had gone of the deep end, there were no outside signs of it. He looked calm and in control of himself. Of course, he always did.

In the world they lived in, the underworld were men used their talents to try to unmake society in their own dreams out of megalomania, psychopathy and a million other reasons, Luthor was a name that demanded and received the awe that was it's due. When they wanted to frighten each other they told Joker stories, true, but when they wanted to impress or inspire each other they talked about the man who set himself up against what was probably the strongest being in the universe, despite having no superpowers of his own except for his intelligence and sheer grit.

Luthor smiled his stainless steel grin, and lifted the phone as though it were an animal he'd hunted and killed himself, that he now intended to cook and eat. "No. I want to kill them all. Remove them as an issue. Wipe the slate clean. And I want you to help."

For a moment, the sheer ludicrous power of the idea struck Parker, and he wanted to say yes for no other reason then because this man was asking it. But he shook himself out of it quickly. He hadn't gotten where he was by moving without thinking and following his sudden impulses, and it was clear in an instant exactly how stacked out of Lex's favor the odds were, president or not. "Join your gang? No thanks. They never work." Parker says, losing interest. "And I got enough problems without putting on a costume and picking a fight out of my league. I've got problems, but I also have a good thing going in New York, and I don't intend to lose it on a pointless gesture."

"Fatalism? Self-interest? No wonder they never work." Luthor replies, his voice as soft and clear as it was when he started. "And there is nothing I can say to make you reconsider?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Very well then." He presses a button on his phone in a manner that makes it very clear he had assumed it would turn out this way and only kept up pretenses for formalities sake. "The IRS just froze your accounts, giving you no liquid assets. My people just repossessed your offshore accounts. And I just brought all your investments at two cents a share. I even bought your bank so I can have the pleasure of foreclosing you personally. Which means I owe you just under five thousand dollars." He reaches into his wallet, then pauses a moment. "After ninety-nine percent taxation, which as president I just decided to institute in your case, that comes to almost fifty dollars. Here, keep the change." He slaps a note on the table.

Parker blinked, uncomprehending. "You can't do that!" And he was pretty sure that Luthor couldn't, at that.

"Can't I? I make the rules, and I say they don't apply to me. Even if I was accountable, which I am not, by the way. I have the money to make all the problems go away, and I have the sort of connections you can't dream of. In fact, I can do anything I want. Or do you think this office is for show? I'm president, and my platform is free energy, clean water, production up enough for people to work and even occasionally to make new jobs, and no more inflation, as well as a decent system to offset all those super-powered people running around and keep them under control. And because nobody else can offer that, I've got better job security then anybody else in the country."

Parker only stuttered. Lex smiled like a shark, and spread his hands, now openly mocking him. "What, you thought moving to the big leagues was all fun, games and respect you haven't earned? Welcome to the jungle. Oh, and by the way, right now you're thinking you don't need to take this and you can get revenge, because you don't have anything to risk or lose. But it's easy to think that. So before you do anything you'll regret, here is a list."

He reaches into the letters, and removes a piece of crisp white paper, which he places onto the table and points at the first line with his gloved hand. "That's the name of your mother, and her room in the asylum where she gets special care. Even preferential treatment. So very noble of you, looking after her like that. Should have left her to die in the street, so she couldn't be used against you. I would. Great men aren't pulled down by others, Parker. But you had to leave her where anyone can find her. Now look at the next name. That's your girlfriend (she's pregnant again, isn't she?) and the address she's living at with your daughter. Your child is four already and you still haven't made an honest woman of her. That's low. No wonder this country needs me to save it."

"Oh, don't look so shocked, I have you under observation, Parker. I know everything that happens, because knowledge is power, and so I take great care to be well-informed. I know where she has her hair done, now that she can afford to, and I know which magazines she buys. I know who your little girls friends are, and where they play when they aren't at school." He pauses.

"Well, I don't know personally, I have people to know that for me. But that's hardly the point, the information is a phone call away. Speaking of which, here are your mistresses and favorite prostitutes. Clearly a man of great appetites, if this list is anything to go by. The numbers next to them are their phone numbers, since they move around so much. New apartments, jewelry, who knows what else? Quite expensive, I imagine. Think any of them will stand-by you with your reversal of fortunes? Well, if they do, Parker, that just gives me more leverage. So I suppose if I want to make a point to you, I'll just have to tell one of the men I keep around for just such an eventuality to go and have them killed."

"Fine." Parker snarled, wanting nothing more then to wring the bald man's neck.

"See, this is why you don't get attached to other people. It makes you easy to threaten, and unable to carry out what you need to in order to survive. If you'd just left your mother when she became a burden and your girlfriend when you started fornicating with everyone who caught your eye, I wouldn't be able to -" He pauses, pointedly and exaggeratedly, then raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

"I said fine. I'll join the club, I'll wear the shirts, say the slogans whatever. Just leave them out of it and don't take away my money." He looks up into Luthors cold, unblinking eyes, and quickly lowers his own, wishing he hadn't. It's not a gaze you want to meet. "Please."

The president's eyes narrow, but his smile is triumphant. "No. Too late. Nobody says no to Lex Luthor, Parker. Particularly not a second-rate with delusions of grandeur like you. And if I can threaten you like this, anyone can, which means that you're at the mercy of every thug with a gun and a certain lack of scruples. I will just put your fashion accessories on someone more disposed to rational thinking, and less disposed to acting the fool. I'd wear them myself, except I can't help but think how terrible an idea it is to make yourself a conduit to those of a demonic persuasion. I prefer to be my own man." He leans back and snaps his fingers. "Miss Graves? Show this little vermin the door. I think we're done here."

"Like hell we are!"

Lex gave him no more attention then he would a mouse, squeaking in the corner. "No need to call Deathstroke. I'm sure he can make his own way home. Isn't that right, Robbins?"

Parker gave no sound, no moments warning, as in one fluid movement he grabbed a letter opener and dove for Luthor's throat. He was a foot away when he hit an immovable barrier and his wrist broke with an audible crack. The air rippled slightly, then returned to normal. Luthor only smiled. "A forcefield, of course. I always take preventative measures. It keeps me safe from violence. And extortion as well."

He taps his nose with one long thin pianists finger. "Plan for the worst. Always plan for the worst, and you'll rarely be caught unprepared.

Parker Robbins felt a vicelike hand close around his shoulder, and looked up into the face of a statuesque amazon beauty dressed in a slightly too tight to be formal chauffeur uniform, with an expression of stern disproval on his face.

"Please. Before we have to kill him." Luthor says, still smiling, eyes looking up at his personal assistant. "He'd make a terrible mess, and I'd miss the pleasure of enjoying his downfall and eventual death. It'll be rather like throwing him into a shark pool, like the old days, except taken over a period of weeks rather then moments." He looks at Parker again. "If you want my advice, use that money you have, to catch a taxi home, and enjoy your last night with a roof over your head, then steal a car and hope the police find you before your old associates. They won't be able to help you, you're long past help, but it might buy you a few more days. And don't bother going to the media, because they'll investigate you as well, and you don't have anything to hold them off anymore. In the end, I'll come of as looking like the good guy as far as the public is concerned. Don't try the unconventional groups either. They'll just kill you. And if you go to the metahumans... well, they'll probably take my side, since you don't know anything useful about what I'm planning, so they'll just dismiss whatever you say. And anyway, this sort of justice appeals to them. Not the one based on reasonable doubt, presumption of innocence, and the rule of evidence, they always go with the one that relies on summary judgement, perceptions, and stereotypes where you punch evil-doers in the face. Which is more or less what I just did, except I hit you where it will really hurt."

He pauses for a moment, almost philosophically, then returns to the present. "You have no resources. You can no longer access the powers that let you become a threat in the first place, and your old accomplices smell blood in the water, and look forward to a future where you are taken out of the way. You're finished. Enjoy your few remaining days on the street, alone and destitute, because your enemies closing in, and first hand experience tells me that there is a hell waiting for you. And nobody can help you. You might as well be an unperson." He smiled like a shark.

"I think we're done here." That his smile was gone, and he theatrically checked his watch. "Well, I have a phonecall with Doctor Victor Von Doom. As amusing a diversion this is, I have better things to do. Some of us actually have a purpose." He waves his hand, and Mercy Graves nods, then drags the protesting man out of the office, forcefully removing him from the White house, through the doorway and tossed onto the street outside the gate like so much refuse, with no shoes, nothing to his name but $50, and a few people he knew who'd no doubt already heard and written him off.


	3. Chapter 3

"Glad you could see me." Luthor said, dressed in white as always, an eyebrow flickering as you step into his office.

"Well you made a very tempting offer." Slade said. "I've never considered losing my independence, but I do like the sound of Chief of Homeland Security, and the paycheck that goes with it."

"Nothing has been decided yet. For one thing, I think I'd be better at it. I even have a few schematics for new uniforms, that I'd like you to take a look at." He holds up some old newspaper scraps. "I designed them myself. In crayon."

Luthor raised an eyebrow, then decided he didn't want to ask. He'd never worked with Deadpool before, and so was little taken aback.

"Well, we'll see." He said diplomatically. "But first there is the matter of a job I'd like you to do."

"I'm not cleaning your pool. Money is no object at all, even for a man with no pride."

"Shut up."

"Not until the bald gentleman asks me to. He's the one cutting the checks."

"Silence."

"Not until I see some money." A terrible thought struck Deadpool. "Wait. This isn't one of those patriotic things, is it? Because my doctor tells me I have a natural deficient in moral fiber and am in desperate need of a spine transplant, making me therefore exempt from saving America."

"No it's not. We're all men of the world here."

"We are? That doesn't mean you're going to pay me in baseball cards, does it?"

"Would you like me to?"

"Yes. I mean no. I mean... I don't even know what I'm saying! Damnit, stop confusing me! You're the most infuriating man I've ever met!"

Luthor did the only thing he could think of to move the conversation on, and back into the direction he'd envisioned. He pressed a button on the remote in his hand, and let what it did speak for itself.  
>A light came on in another section of the room, revealing a table covered with all a manner of the latest of Luthorcorp weapons innovations, ranging from small gadgets that could double as surgical instruments to guns the size of your leg. Some Stark equipment fleshed it out for good measure.<p>

"Sweet buttery biscuits!" Deadpool skipped over like a giddy school girl and picked up one of the shiny…oh so shiny…weapons. He couldn't help it. He squealed happily, then coughed. "I did that out loud, didn't I? That was meant to be an internal thing… You stabbed me in the medulla oblongata. How rude."

"Using surgical terms doesn't make you smart." Slade replies as he removes the bowie knife from the top of Deadpools skull. "Particularly when you use them to describe being stabbed in wrong portion of the brain."

"You think I'm stupid? I'd like to see you even talk when you have a knife in you're brain, let alone incorrectly label your grey matter."

"I have told you that I think you're stupid, to your face, almost as many times as I've told you I don't respect you."

"That's a very hurtful thing to say, when all I really want is to be just like you."

This time Slade stabbed him through the midsection and out the other side.

"ARGH! Ooo! Must…resist…iron in diet…jokes…"

"If the two of you could stop this delightful insight into the exact definition of the word dysfunction long enough for me to explain why you are both here."

"Yeah, that would probably be a good idea. It would really be a shame if I didn't have anyone to use all this shiny weaponry on."

Luthor pressed a button, activating the screens behind him. One showed a stately manor in Gotham, built in the gothic style that defined so much of that cities architecture. Another showed a huge man strapped to a table with tubes feeding directly into his bloodstream, a third a high class party somewhere.

Deadpool whistled, his quip about the fact that the remote only seemed to have one button that did everything dying on his lips. "Nice. You get Cinamax?"

Luthor shrugged. Cinamax, HBO, all the channels."

"Would you cut that out?" Slade asked, rolling his eye in exasperation. That was his little brothers effect. Even the most serious and stoic of people will become morons in his presence. He was immune himself, but that only made it worse. Because he had to put up with him all the time.

"Hey, if I had a buck for every time somebody said that, I wouldn't need this job."

"Well, if we could focus on that for a moment..." 

"Of course Mr Luthor." 

"Right. The man I want you to kill is Bruce Wayne. You all know who I mean, the billionaire philanthropist who continues to act like an adolescent playboy, and constantly makes a fool of himself on the tabloids. Hard to believe he won't see his forties much longer, he could be in his prime given his state of fitness, yet he's been injured more then any prize fighter. An incongruity I couldn't help but notice." Luthor says. "I've had my attention on him in general and Gotham in particular for a while now. And with some experimental therapy, I've managed to recover certain memories Bane had lost."

He indicates the screen where the big man was restrained "And came to some very interesting conclusions. Bruce Wayne is more then he appears. I considered simply publicizing it, and letting Gotham's underworld deal with it's own problem, but I decided I want to make sure."

"Is there a job in there somewhere?"

"Go to Gotham. Kill him. Frame somebody, preferably one of his erstwhile allies." Luthor says, than hands them a check. A blank check. "You do that for me, and you can fill in any number you like up there."

"Kill Batman? I always knew I'd amount to something one day. Look at me mom!" He fell silent, because Slade stabbed him again.


	4. Chapter 4

They pulled up to the club, the bass already thumping from inside somewhere. Slade had hoped for an inconspicuous, out of the way place, but Deadpool had insisted, and had somehow talked his brother around.

So here they were. The Iceberg Lounge. A whole lo of sad rich people wanting a feeling of danger so drinking with the villians and greasing their palms as they did. And then the even more exclusive part of town, the backroom. Deadpool apparently didn't have the credibility to get a table, so Slade had pointedly pulled a gun on the Maitre'D, and the issue had ceased to exist.

Recruiting local help was the first step in a successful job, given that they knew the lay of the land, what had been tried before, and could add their own expertise to yours. And it gave you someone to sacrifice if it became necessary.

Slade was in costume, his body armor, kevlar and chainmail, though he had managed to leave the mask and most of his weapons at the Townhouse Luthor had leant them that was usually given to visiting employees. In contrast, Deadpool was in the suit his older brother wore on casual occasions (mostly to funerals), with the addition of his mask, and the ridiculous belts covered in pouches he didn't seem able to live without, despite the fact Slade knew for a fact they were all empty.

A pretty waitress wearing a very small pair of shorts and a bikini top came by and asked if the guys would like a drink.

"How about your number? Humina, humina, humina…" asked Deadpool, never one to be shy. The girl smiled and winked at him, given that to do so was what her job, and quite possibly her life depending on the instability of the asker, depended on.

Slade ordered a double bourbon on the rocks, Deadpool ordered four Jello shots with a whipped cream topping, a bottle of White Zinfandel, and a nice little side plate of quiche, and the two got to work.

"I hate to break it to you, but they're all kinda crazy." Deadpool said, sipping his drink through a straw and trying to look coy, while Slade pointedly looked anywhere but at his brother. "And not even well-adjusted, charming crazy like me. Someone should lock them all away."

"They just have to serve as a distraction while we set up. Anyone can manage that."

"Not too distracting. We don't want him to forget to pay attention to me."

"That's exactly what we want. Remember, we know where he lives."

A passing lunatic with a Glasgow smile and plenty of facepaint stopped at their table in a desperate bid for attention. "Hey, do want to know how I got these scars?"

"No." Slade replied, then pointed a gun at the mans face. "Do you want to know how I lost this eye?"

"Um. I'll - I'll just go over here now."

Deadpool shook his head. "I can't take you anywhere."

Then he belched hugely, and yawned. "Do we have to come to a place like this?" he asks, forgetting he was the one who insisted. "I'm worried someone will spike my drinks and take advantage of me in my incapacitated state." Then he paused. "I think I'll drink straight from the bottle."

"We need local blood. If I bring in the Deathstrike Clan-"

"That's still a really stupid name. You should have gone with-"

"The Deathstrike clan." Slade repeated, raising his voice slightly. "He'll know something is up, someone new in town is up to something. Where a local causing trouble is just a Tuesday."

"Won't we kinda give it away ourselves? Because I'm not going in disguise. I have my dignity, and people have the right to know that they are being killed by. I've killed hundreds of people, but I refuse to tell a fib."

"By the time he knows we're here, we'll be ready and it'll be much too late."

"Ah. OK. Well, how about we pick up some girls in the meantime?" Wade says.

"Pickings are a little slim here."

"You mean none of them are blond and underage."

"None of them are blind, brain-damaged, and have a substance abuse problem either, so you're certainly out of luck."

"Touche." Deadpool closed his mouth. He fidgeted. He finished his third jello shot, then placed the forth one on his head. "Feel like going all William Tell?"

Slade ignored him, looking at the list again. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Time for a new plan."

"If this plan involves me dressing in drag, I require the dress to be slinky and the pumps to be black. Actually, better let me pick the costume myself."

For the sake of his sanity, Slade ignored him. "Lets arrange a mass breakout. Blow open Arkham and Blackgate and see that they all escape. That'll certainly get his attention."

"That plan is poorly envisioned, has holes you could drive an armored convoy through, but if I don't go with it there isn't anywhere to go with this, so lets do it!"

"Oh, I know it's not airtight, but it doesn't need to be. Because he's his own worse enemy, he'll fight with all he has even though it will wear him down in no time, and he's too proud to ask for help."

"And if he does?" 

"Well, we'll just have to make sure he doesn't get a chance."


	5. Chapter 5

Deadpool sat at the edge of the bench in the park, named after some famous personage or another, just beneath the hill that led up to the asylum. It was never crowded, but it was unusually empty today. Maybe after living so long in the closest thing to hell on the planet, the people of Gotham could sense danger about to happen. Maybe Deadpool was scaring them away. Who knew, right?

At the moment, the Merc with a Mouth was reading a book (which he was holding upside down. He'd realized the mistake the second he'd picked it up, but putting it the right way up would be admitting defeat) explaining the setting and detonation of explosives, in order to make the most of the bag sitting next to him. He'd done a lousy job of setting them up, the oh so delicate nitroglycerine was on the bottom, beneath some very heavy examples of the bomb-makers craft. But really, that was the least of his problems.

"It's important to keep your own safety in consideration when you…blah, blah, blah… Make sure you first…blah, blah, blah…"

He snorted and crumbled it up into a ball, then tossed it into the pond where a duck ate it and choked after mistaking it for a breadcrumb, and stood up.

"I'll figure it out as I go. Got me this far. Let's see here" He picked up a device and a soldering iron, then put them back down, realizing he had no power outlet to plug them in. "…maybe if I just… button..."

The raw explosives stared back, mocking his pitiful attempts to understand them. A muscle above his eye twitched, then he turned his back, stood up and walked towards his brother, leaving the dubious benefits of technology to those who were in a position to make sense of them.

Slade was on the top of the hill, watching the mental institution above through a telescope. At night the place looked quite sinister, but by day, it was sad more then anything. His trained eyes continue their surveillance, carefully taking note of all details, and cutting out all distractions. Unfortunately, his main distraction tended to take that as a challenge.

"This is all a waste of time. Why don't we just blow up his house and call it a day."

"Batmans been around a long time. If he can't deal with an explosion, he'd never have lasted this long." Slade replies, without turning around. "If a superhero can be killed by an explosion, you can tell that their heart isn't really in the job."

"Then make it a really big explosion."

"Look. I know you're bored. Why don't you go eat candyfloss or something while I do the reconnaissance and observation."

"Hey! I'm totally useful. Stop trying to get me out of the way."

Slade pulled out his cellphone, and handed it to Wade. "It's for you."

Wade picked it up and put it to his ear. Silence sounded back at him. "Who has disturbed my slumber?" he demanded, but no reply came. Nothing was said. "The quiet game, huh? Well of course you understand, this means war."

Twenty blessed minutes later, Deadpool returned, having finally conceded to the worthy opponent that he could not hope to win. Deathstroke hadn't even stirred. Perhaps he hadn't even blinked. Now that was just scary.

"You know, we're making this too complicated. The guy leaves his house all the time, and we won't catch him sleeping anyway. Who says Batman even sleeps? We could just stake the place out, wait for him to go out, call Deadshot, or if he's too hard to get in contact with, Bullseye, and have him shoot the guy."

"I thought of that." Slade replies, after his shock wore off. His little brother was usually something of a liability in this stage, he only really came into his own if Deathstroke needed a human shield or someone to set off the traps. It was always strange when he suddenly slipped into being useful again. Unfortunately, those times were hard to come by. "It's not as good an idea as it sounds like."

"You sure?" 

"Yes." 

"Extra special sure?" 

Silence. 

"Do I sense a lack of confidence?" 

Silence. 

"Don't you want to explain to me how brilliant you are? How you've planned everything? Come on, we both know you have a prepared speech somewhere, huh?" 

Silence. 

"Me, I am never prepared. It just sort of happens." 

Silence. 

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a very zen outlook on life?" 

Silence. 

"If you want to go to Disneyland, make no sign." 

Knife in between vertebrae six and seven. 

"Can I count that as a maybe?" 

Deathstroke finally stirred. "Okay. I've got a good idea of all the systems in place. Their not designed to keep people out, so much as in, but they're good. They just weren't designed with us in mind. I can see a few ways to get through." He paused. "Getting the people inside out without tipping off our hand, that might be a little harder." 

"Airvents?" 

"Too small to fit through." 

"Some people have no sense of tradition. Then again, what can you expect in a place like this? I mean, it's kind of a dump anyway, right? 'Course, that's just my opinion. Some people might quite like it." 

"Nah, the place looks like it was designed by the Hammer Horror brothers as a prop." Slade replied, standing up and stretching like a panther. "Who in their right mind would think this is the place to reintegrate psychopaths into society? I feel a bit insane just looking at it." 

"Oh. I though that was just me being me." As dangerous lunatics go, Deadpool was remarkably well adjusted to his condition. 

"Right. Dawn." 

"You sure? I mean, we normally work at night..." 

"Everyone here works at night. The local superhero even dresses up as a giant bat. They expect night attacks. So that's when they'll be on their guard. We attack at dawn." 

"Sneaky."


End file.
